


The Boys from Brooklyn

by fuck_me_barnes



Series: Brooklyn Baby [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s, Angst and Feels, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Blood and Injury, Chronic Illness, Drunken Confessions, Everyone is Bisexual, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Biphobia, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pneumonia, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-02-15 20:22:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2242266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuck_me_barnes/pseuds/fuck_me_barnes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short, loosely twined series of ficlets about pre-serum Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes (and one that's post-serum but before CA:TWS).</p><p>“Don’t listen to them. Don’t you EVER listen to them. You ain’t no queer.”</p><p>Steve looks up at him, an odd expression on his face, rubbing his shoulder reflexively. “No. No. ‘Course not, Buck. Just ‘cause I live in your bachelor pad, and share a room with you…that don’t mean anything.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. don't listen to them

**Author's Note:**

> These started out as flashfiction prompts and got kinda long...and then I started to tie them together some.

"You think I haven’t heard what they say about me? Him and his whole gang?" Steve’s shaking, he’s so angry. He’s got a black eye that, Bucky notes with dismay, isn’t going to stop swelling anytime soon. Cuts and bruises on his knuckles. a sore arm for sure. "Shrimp. Runt." His voice drops low, a near-whisper. "And he called me a fruit. A  _queer_.”  
  
Startled, Bucky turns, grabs Steve’s shoulder, a little more roughly than he’d intended. “Don’t listen to them. Don’t you EVER listen to them. You ain’t no queer.”  
  
Steve looks up at him, an odd expression on his face, rubbing his shoulder reflexively. “No. No. ‘Course not, Buck. Just ‘cause I live in your bachelor pad, and share a room with you…that don’t mean anything.” His tone sounds a little strange, off from the usual Steve Rogers, like he's trying to make a joke that he knows isn't funny at all.  
  
Bucky looks at him. Did Steve… _know_? He’d never touched him, not in any way that wasn’t perfectly brotherly, no matter how much he’d wanted to do otherwise. He’d never even so much as looked at him, least not while Steve was looking. Steve was no queer.  _Bucky_  was no queer.  
  
It was unnatural, he knew. Guys wanting guys when they should be wanting dames. Thing of it was, Bucky’d always wanted both. He’d tried so hard not to want Steve, but he couldn’t help it. All the times he’d wanted to kiss him. When he was drawing in a square of sunlight on the floor, lost in concentration to everything but the pencil and paper in front of him. When he was laughing over the cartoon after the newsreel at the picture show. When he was angry and full of fire, like right now, that’s when he wanted to kiss him the most, just grab him and hold him in his arms like he would some dame and tip him back for a breathless kiss.

And every Sunday, he’d go to guiltily to St. Michael’s, pray on it, and make a half-assed confession. He couldn’t even be honest with the priest. Father Murphy’d know his voice for sure, he’d known the both of them since they were kids. He’d just say “Bless me father, for I have sinned. I have had lustful thoughts”, and leave it at that. All he could do was hope he didn’t taint Steve, innocent little Stevie, with his perversion. He just wanted it to go  _away_.

And yet. And yet. Sometimes, while Steve was asleep, Bucky would look across the room at him (Bucky was a light sleeper, always on alert for any change in Steve’s breathing) and watch him. Wheezing softly, the city lights illuminating his face in the dim room, one arm thrown carelessly over his head, he looked like some kinda angel fallen gently to earth. Bucky would think about crawling into bed with Steve then, curling around him, pressing a kiss to those soft lips. It was then, in those quiet small hours between midnight and dawn, that he’d allow himself to think that maybe it wasn’t so wrong, wanting to go with both fellas and dames.  
  
But Steve couldn’t know. Steve would be disgusted to find out Bucky was some kind of invert (but he wasn’t, he  _wasn’t_ , he’d never had any trouble with the dames anyways), and he’d leave, and the thought made Bucky sick.  
  
His reverie breaks when Steve starts waving a hand in front of his eyes. “Buck? Hey, Buck. Where’d you go?” Steve was smiling up at him, perplexed. “You went away on me there for a minute.”   
  
He fixes his trademark cocky grin on his face, though it feels stretched too tight across his lips tonight. “Sorry, Stevie. Was just daydreaming about how I’d bust Mickey Finnegan’s nose next time I see him for roughing you up.” He slings an arm around Steve’s shoulder, careful to make sure he doesn’t pull him any closer than was strictly friendly. Just buddies. That’s all. “C’mon, let’s get you home and patched up, pal, yeah?” 


	2. blood and whiskey

He hears the front door open, then swing shut slowly, closing with a quiet click. But this time there’s no cheerful hello, no “what’s for dinner, Stevie”, just silence. This piques his curiosity enough that he walks out from the kitchen, and when he does, Bucky’s there, back against the door, eyes closed. Well. One eye’s closed, the other one’s swelled shut. Someone’s done a number on his face, and…  
  
"Bucky? Shit, are you bleeding?" He closes the distance between the two of them, and sure enough, in addition to the black eye, there’s a cut on his forehead, a split lip, and blood on the collar of his work shirt.  
  
"Hey, Stevie. ‘S for supper?" he asks faintly, and slides down to the ground.  
  
Steve ignores the question, crouching down next to him to inspect the damage. “Who gave you that shiner, Buck?” He smells like blood and whiskey, and he realizes belatedly that Bucky’s not only beat up but half-drunk to boot.

"It’s nothin’, it’s nothin’, don’t worry about it." Bucky tries to smile, but it makes his lip bleed anew. Dazedly, he wipes the blood with the back of his hand, smearing it across his jaw. "Shoulda seen the other guy. Most of the blood’s his." His good eye opens, sees the blood on the back of his hand that’s now sitting limply in his lap. "Most of it." The knuckles are raw and red, looking a little swollen, and Steve wonders if he’s broken something in his hand.   
  
As if he could read his mind, Bucky slurs, “Nothing’s broken. ‘S all right, Stevie. Had to defend your honor, again.” He chuckles weakly. “Toldja when I saw Mickey Finnegan, I’d bust his fuckin’ nose for…” Bucky licks his lips, tasting blood, and winces slightly at the sting of his tongue running over the cut. “For before”, he finishes lamely.  
  
"For roughing me up. And calling me a queer." Steve’s voice goes odd in his own ears. Mickey hadn’t been wrong, and that was the worst part.  _But if Bucky found out_ \- He didn’t want to think about what would happen if his best friend discovered he was in love with him, after all the time he’d spent defending him against an accusation that was completely correct. He pushes it away, tries to distract the both of them with a lecture instead. “You shouldn’t have-“   
  
"Shouldn’ta what? You think I’m gonna let you have all the fun?" The corner of his mouth twitches up in a sad smile, gesturing to his face with his bloody hand. "Now, Stevie, that just ain’t fair. Fair woulda been Mickey fighting me hisself, and not bringing in three of his buddies."

Steve’s heart sinks with this new information. “You tangled with the four of them? At once? Jesus, Buck.” His blue eyes meet Bucky’s. Even banged up like this, covered in blood, Bucky still manages to look handsome. It’s absurd. He darts his eyes away, embarrassed by his own thoughts, and stands up before Bucky can see him blush. “Lemme see if I can borrow some ice from Mrs. Larson’s icebox next door to put on your eye.”  
  
"Nah, Stevie, don’t." Bucky pulls himself to his feet with a groan. "I ain’t got a dime to spare her for the trouble."  
  
"At least let me help clean you up," Steve offers guiltily. "Least I can do." He goes to fetch a rag and some water, and when he comes back into the living room Bucky’s pulling his bloodstained work shirt off. As he does, his undershirt catches a little, exposing the a fresh blue bruise on the flat expanse of his stomach, and a trail of dark hair. Steve’s mouth goes dry and all the air goes out of his lungs.  
  
He’d never been very lucky with the girls, but that didn’t mean he didn’t like them just fine.  _I’m not a queer_ , he thought stubbornly. And yet. And yet, he was struck with a sudden sick desire to drop to his knees before Bucky, and press his lips gently to that bruise. The bruise that Bucky had gotten for standing up for  _him_.  
  
Instead, he pushes Bucky down into sitting in the old ratty armchair and starts dabbing away at the cuts with the wet rag. He tries to make sure that every touch could only interpreted as simple friendly concern, but it’s not till he gets to the split lip that he falters. Cupping one side of Bucky’s face in his hand, he leans in, turning his head towards him and gingerly holds the rag to his lip. Bucky sucks in a little gasp, and at the sound, so does Steve.   
  
"Sorry. Gonna sting a little," he murmurs to Bucky in apology, trying to maintain a casualness he does not feel. Underneath his palm, a muscle in Bucky’s jaw twitches, the stubble on his cheek scratching his fingers. He very carefully does _not_  look Bucky in the eye, because he knows if he does…if he does…  
  
Bucky reaches up, places his hand over Steve’s, the one holding his face steady. “Hey. Thanks, Stevie”, he says quietly. Steve can’t help it, he looks up, and their eyes catch. Reflexively, he tries to inhale and the whiskey on Bucky’s breath is enough to make him dizzy. His face is far, far too close, and yet neither of them are moving away.   
  
Steve blinks, trying to break the spell, and then Bucky’s got his hand on Steve’s jaw and he can’t tell which one of them is pulling the other in and he’s kissing him, Bucky is  _kissing him_  and he tastes like whiskey and blood and it is the sweetest most terrifying thing Steve Rogers has ever tasted.  
  
Remembering himself, Steve pulls away before he does anything embarrassing. “You’re drunk, Buck.”  
  
"Don’t care. Wanted to do that for awhile, Stevie." He laughs, but it’s a harsh, broken sound. "Aw, no. Shit. Stevie. ‘M sorry. Fuck." Bucky falls back in the armchair, grimacing. "Fuck. You weren’t supposed to…I didn’t want…shouldn’t have said that."  
  
"You…wanted to do that?" Steve asks, his voice sounding thin and reedy, like all the sudden he couldn’t get enough air in his lungs. "But you’re not…"  
  
"Can’t help it. Nothin’ wrong with dames, hell, love ‘m. Somethin’ wrong with me, though. I look at you and…" he shrugs loosely, not looking at Steve. "I just…want."  
  
Steve tries to speak, and then, failing, clears his throat awkwardly. He tries again. “Bucky. Nothin’s wrong with you. ‘Cause if there’s something wrong with you…that means there’s something wrong with me, too.”  
  
Bucky opens his good eye to stare at him, startled. “I…I guess I feel the same way, Buck. Always have. And…” oh, hell, he can feel himself blushing now, “…and I wouldn’t mind doing that again.”  
  
The look on Bucky’s face just before he pulls him in for another kiss is a sort of stunned rapture. Steve thinks it’s gorgeous, even through the blood and bruises.


	3. kiss me like you're going to war

"D’you think you’re gonna get your card pulled?"  
  
"What, you mean, the draft? I dunno. Maybe. I haven’t thought much about it." It’s a lie. He can’t  _stop_  thinking about it, ever since he got the notice in the mail this afternoon. He doesn’t want to go off to war. No one around to look after runty little Steve Rogers, making sure he’s got enough to eat, taking his medicine, not starting fights he knows he can’t finish.  
  
"You could, though, Buck." Steve’s feet swing idly off the barstool, too short to rest on the rail below the bar. "You could. I bet you’d make a great soldier." There’s a bitterness in Steve’s voice, and Bucky’s pretty sure it’s because he knows he’d never make the cut. They both know that if he tried to enlist he’d be 4-F in a second flat.  
  
He shakes his head. “Would you quit it with that talk, Stevie? C’mon, let’s get out of here.” He tosses some money on the counter to cover their tab and grabs his jacket, pulling it on as he walks.   
  
As they walk back to their flat, though, Steve doesn’t shut up about it. “What do you think it’d be like? Going off to fight overseas? Would you rather be on the Western front? Or the Pacific?”   
  
Bucky groans. “I don’t know, pal. I don’t know, and I don’t care. I got my hands full over here trying to look after your skinny ass, and that’s one battle I know I can’t win.” He tries to make it into a joke, tries to play it off like it hasn’t already been on his mind all day.  
  
Suddenly, Steve grabs him by the arm and drags him into a side alley, pushes him up against the crumbling brick wall of the Italian grocery. It’d have been startling, if it had been anyone else, but it’s Steve, and it’s funny, and Bucky can’t help but laugh. “What -“ 

"Buck. Stop pretending like it ain’t happening. I saw the notice you got in the mail." Steve’s angrily poking him in the chest with one skinny finger.  
  
He smiles weakly, trying to defuse the situation. “Aw, Stevie, you weren’t supposed to see that, not yet. I was gonna wait until -“  
  
"Until what. Until  _when_?” He’s really furious now, and Bucky feels sick, and the beer he’d just finished at the bar sloshing around in his stomach isn’t helping. “Until you shipped out?”  
  
"C’mon, Stevie, no. No. I just didn’t…I just didn’t want to…" he has no idea how to finish that sentence.  _Upset you?_  he thinks, but does not say. Too late for that.  
  
"Kiss me." Steve’s voice breaks.   
  
Bucky blinks. “What?”  
  
"Kiss me like you’re going to war. Like you don’t know when or if you’re coming back. Like you know you may never see me again and it could be the last time." They’d fooled around before, sure. Mostly it’d been some fumbling around in the dark, late nights when one or both of them had been drinking, Bucky maybe sometimes pretending like he was a little drunker than he was in order to formulate a weak excuse for grabbing Steve and kissing him…and more. They never talked about it, it was just a thing that happened sometimes, and he didn’t think Steve felt the same way about him in broad daylight and sober as he did in the middle of the night, half-drunk and wanting. Didn’t  _need_  him the same way.  
  
They’d each only had one beer, all they could afford. Steve was a lightweight, sure, but even he couldn’t get drunk off of only one beer. “What are you playing at, pal? I ain’t gonna kiss ya.”  
  
Now it’s Steve’s turn to look surprised. “I just. I just thought…”  
  
The betrayal in his eyes is too much to take, and Bucky softens. “Aw, Stevie…it’s just…if someone sees us…” he protests weakly. He wants to kiss him. He has always wanted to kiss him. He’s wanted to kiss him since they were kids, sitting up in a treehouse some of the older kids had built in the park.  _You and me, we’re gonna be best pals forever, ain’t we, Buck?_  Steve had said with that brilliant grin of his, the one that was pure sunshine, and Bucky had wanted to lie down and die for him right then and there at the tender age of eight.  
  
"Aw, hell." Suddenly he doesn’t care who sees, anymore. He’ll be on his way to boot camp soon enough, and then shipped out to God knows where, to shoot at other kids from other countries and get shot at, and very likely die alone and without Steve Rogers, on a continent far away from Brooklyn, New York.

He grabs Steve to him, presses his mouth to his, and kisses him like it’s the truth: he’s going to war, and he’s scared as hell, but none of it matters right now, because he figures he’ll be a dead man either way. All he knows is that, one way or another, he can’t live without this.


	4. I'm here for you

They don’t ever say it. They never give the thought voice. “I love you” is too raw, too real, too honest, so instead they display their affection with shoulder punches, tackles, noogies and playful shoves. They call each other “punk” and “jerk” and “bum”, “meatball” and “lunk” and “booger” instead. It’s easier, somehow.

Steve is fourteen when he gets pneumonia for the first time. It’s been a cold, slushy winter, real miserable, and the weather isn’t helping him breathe much. Every day, after school, Bucky heads over to the Rogers place, shows up on the doorstep as if by accident, almost.

"Hey, Mrs. Rogers, is Steve feeling better today?" he asks for the sixth straight day, pretending not to hear the alarming coughing fit coming from behind the door. And somehow, he’d manage to sweet talk his way in, end up helping Mrs. Rogers with the household chores ( _"Guess Steve’s too lazy to help you out, huh, ma’am", he’d ask with a wink and a smile for both Steve and his ma_ ) and finish the night telling Steve about what he’d missed in school that day or the plot of a movie playing down at the picture house.

Steve’s ma is a nurse, and she’d always cluck at first about Bucky getting sick, too. But she also recognized that sometimes, healing didn’t always come from doctors and hospitals, and after Bucky left, Steve would sleep peacefully with a little smile on his face, so what was the harm?

About ten days in, Steve took a turn for the worse, burning up with fever, lapsing in and out of consciousness. Every inhale and every exhale made a terrifying thick crackling sound, and he wasn’t able to lie down all the way for fear he’d choke on all the mucus. Even so, that night Bucky still stayed by his side, talking to him till he fell into a fitful sleep.  
  
He’d been about to slip out of the apartment for the night - it was getting late, after all - when he hears Steve moan and then cough. “Bucky,” he rasps, and he sounds like a drowning man.   
  
"Yeah, Stevie?" he says quietly, his heart leaping up into his throat.  
  
When Steve speaks, it’s so faint he can barely hear it. “Don’t go, Buck. I’m scared.” His chest heaves, and he coughs so hard Bucky has to go over and thump him on the back a few times, because he doesn’t know what else to do. Steve’s ma was pulling a double at the hospital and wouldn’t be back until the next morning.

When Bucky touches him, he’s so hot he almost pulls his hand back, the kid feels like a hot stove on a July afternoon. “Don’t leave me alone,” he murmurs feverishly. “Think I’m dying, Buck. I don’t want to die by myself.” 

Bucky’s stomach turns to ice. “Hush that talk, you hear? Don’t be stupid, you punk.” Steve starts to weep, then, little mewling sobs, and that scares him worse. Steve  _never_  cries, not even when he was getting the crap kicked out of him by someone three times his size.  
  
"Hey, hey, hey, c’mon, none of that. I ain’t goin’ nowhere. I’m here, Stevie. I’m here for you, and I will always love you." The words fall out of his mouth before he can stop them.   
  
"Love you too, Buck. Always have." Steve whispers as he settles back in the pillows, eyes fluttering shut. Bucky flushes with embarrassment for a second, and then figures he can write it off later as some kinda fever dream if Steve ever brings it up again.  
  
Steve doesn’t say anything more, just lies back and lets Bucky wipe the tears gently from his face. Bucky spends all night there, curled up by his side, only ever settling into a light doze in case he woke up and started having a coughing fit he couldn’t control again.   
  
In the morning, Steve stirs, and his hand brushes up against Bucky, lying next to him on his side. “Stevie? You okay?” he asks, jerking awake in a flash.  
  
"The hell are you doing here, Bucky? It’s almost eight am." Steve’s voice still sounds a little wrecked, but his breathing is better, Bucky notices.   
  
"Musta fallen asleep, you bored me so much last night", Bucky replies with a grin. "Feeling better?" 

Steve pauses, thinking, and takes an experimental breath. It’s still rattling in when he breathes, but at least he can breathe. “Little better, yeah. I had the weirdest dream last night.”  
  
"Oh yeah? Let me guess, it involved Gracie Morello? Can’t fool me, I heard you talkin’ in your sleep. ‘Oh, Gracie, plant another one on me!’ HAH!" Bucky shoves him lightly, trying to deflect and distract Steve from saying out loud what he’d thought he dreamed up.  
  
"Bucky, no." Steve groans.   
  
"That’s not what you were saying last night," Bucky quips, and then realizes his mistake. Steve’s eyes narrow, and Bucky stands up quickly, making a point of looking away to glance at the clock. "Aw, hell, I’m gonna be late to school. I’ll be back after, so I can tell you all about how much shorter Gracie’s skirt’s gotten in your absence."  
  
"Bye, Bucky", Steve says quietly. After he leaves, Steve smiles and whispers to himself. "Love you, too."


	5. not a sickness but a fever

They’re walking home from one of the dancehalls when they see them. It’s late, Bucky having treated Steve to a couple of drinks after Steve’s date had decided to leave early. She said she had a headache, but Bucky suspected the headache’s name was Sean O’Malley, since that’s who she’d slipped out the door with when Steve’s back was turned. At least, he  _hopes_  his back was turned. It was one thing for a dame to turn a guy down, but another thing entirely to be cruel about it.

With both of them pleasantly buzzed, he suggested they head home - no point in sticking around, since Bucky’s date had taken off to “check on her friend” shortly after she’d left.   
  
They’d only gotten about a block from home when he’d heard a sharp cry and then a low moan coming from down an alleyway. He glances at Steve, who’d clearly heard it too.   
  
"I think someone’s in trouble," he says, and the way he set his jaw meant he was ready to run headfirst into getting his ass kicked again.   
  
"Aw, Steve, c’mon-" he starts, then rolls his eyes to catch up to his friend, who’d already darted down the alleyway. It’s dark, and at first, when Bucky’s eyes focus on them, he thinks they’ve interrupted a robbery. There’s a man pushed up against a wall, his cheek grazing the brick, and a man behind him, a hand on his shoulder, his other hand…oh.  _Oh_. 

Steve skids to a halt, and stares for about ten seconds at the two men rutting up against the wall, groaning and panting. Bucky has to grab him by the shoulder and steer him away from the scene.

"Think they’re in a different kind of trouble, Stevie," he says with a chuckle that he hopes doesn’t sound nervous. Bucky turns his head back towards the men as they walk out of the alleyway, calling over his shoulder, "That’s sick!"   
  
He doesn’t know why says it, except maybe to deny his own arousal, and he wants to take the words back as soon as they leave his mouth. On his left, Steve stiffens, and he takes his hand from his shoulder. He hopes it’s dark enough out that Steve can’t see him flush.

Steve doesn’t speak to him again until they’re back in the apartment. “You thought that was sick?” he asks in a quiet voice. “What…what we saw?” He looks more curious than hurt, but he knows Steve’s always one to put a brave face on everything. _  
_

But he just smiles carefully and says, “Well. Figured a back alley next to a dumpster wasn’t very gentlemanly.”

Steve’s head jerks up in surprise. “Huh?”

"Well. Yeah." Bucky shrugs, the gin in his system making him a little bold. "I mean. ‘S not how I’d do it." Now Steve’s staring at him a little shocked, all openmouthed, and he thinks,  _what the hell_. “I’d at least treat you to a bed.”

The look on Steve’s face is priceless, and then he starts to laugh. It’s cut off, though, when Bucky, feeling exceptionally bold now, closes the distance between them and kisses him.   
  
After a few seconds, he pulls back, resting his forehead on Steve’s. “It wasn’t sick. I guess I was just jealous, is all.” He says it quietly, and Steve doesn’t say anything for so long he’s starting to wonder if he’s made the biggest mistake of his life.  
  
"Yeah. Guess I was, too," Steve says finally, tipping his head back up for another kiss. 


	6. you don't have to stay

Every last one of the Howling Commandos has spent the last 24 hours in their camp complaining about the cold, except Bucky, for some reason. Bucky hasn’t said much of anything, come to think of it, save for general pleasantries. Which is unlike him.

Sure, Steve’s mouth could (and often did) get him into trouble, but Bucky was never the type to just… _stop talking_ , either, and that’s what worries him the most. So, late one night, after taking first watch, Steve walks into the little hunters’ cabin he and Bucky were sharing, and decides it’s time to get him to talk. 

"Hey, Stevie. My turn for watch?" he says blandly, getting up from where he’d been sitting by the fireplace.

Steve clomps his boots a bit by the entrance, getting as much snow off as he could (even though this cabin has probably been abandoned for a dozen years or more, it still felt…rude, somehow, to leave wet footprints everywhere). “No, Buck. I got Dugan to switch with you.” 

Bucky’s brow furrows. “Huh?”

He shrugs. “Figured you could use a break tonight. He was happy to do it. Said he brought a book to read, something about a giant lizard or something.” Steve peels off his boots, then his jacket, shaking snow out of his hair. He cracks a tentative smile at Bucky. “Guess it’s just you and me, tonight.”

"Mmm," says Bucky noncommittally, and settles himself back down by the fire.

Steve moves towards the fireplace and Bucky, stretching as he walks. The cold didn’t bother him like it used to, anymore. In fact, he ran hot, or so they’d told him. Metabolism jacked up, along with everything else. He was still getting used to this body, how it worked. He sits himself down next to his best friend in the whole world, and together, they sit and watch the fire crackle for awhile. 

After about half an hour, it’s Steve who breaks the silence.

"You don’t have to stay." He says it casually, as if it were part of a conversation they’d left off just a moment before. 

Bucky turns his head slowly to look at him. “Stay? In the cabin? You kickin’ me out,  _Captain_?” he asks. There’s a strained edge to Bucky’s voice that, Steve knows, his next response will either smooth over, or push into a fight. 

Steve doesn’t rise to the bait, keeps staring into the fire. The wood pops. A few sparks fly out, shimmering and dying on the updraft. “No, Buck. I mean, with  _me_. You don’t have to stay with me.” He keeps his tone mild. Anyone else, he’d have picked the fight, but not with Bucky. Not now and not ever.

He’s silent, so Steve bites his lip for a second and then continues on. “I…I don’t know what you went through, in that place. If it’s too much…you don’t have to stay.  _Technically_ , the Commandos don’t even exist.” He still won’t look Bucky directly in the eye while he speaks. He’s no good at this.  ”You want to, you say the word, and you can go back to Brooklyn. Don’t stay here, with me, because you think it’s what  _I_  want.”

There’s a loud sigh from his left. Bucky was always on his left, it seemed. “Stevie. No. I don’t…I’m here because I  _want_  to be here. I’m  _supposed_  to be here. Don’t send me home. I’m fine. I don’t wanna be anywhere else, but with you.”

Now Steve turns, shifting towards him a little, finally looking at him. “Think that’s the most you’ve said all at once in months.” He reaches out for him, seeking his hand. “The…Hydra… D’you wanna talk about it or -” he starts.

"Jesus, Stevie. No, I don’t. Will ya just shut up and kiss me?" Bucky’s got a little half-smile on his face, leaning into him, and Steve knows it’s just another way he has of deflecting the topic. "We’ve got this whole cabin to ourselves for the night, why not make use of it?" Bucky murmurs against his neck, making him shudder despite the warmth radiating from the crackling fire. 

Against his better judgment, Steve decides to table the discussion for another night. Maybe they could just spend this one together, and get some rest after.

They had a train to catch tomorrow, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for all the positive feedback on these little "snapshot" ficlets so far! Come find me on Tumblr! 
> 
> fuck-me-barnes.tumblr.com


	7. every way possible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for a promptfill, "Steve/Bucky and the phrase 'I want you in every way possible'."

They were eighteen and nineteen, respectively, when it finally, finally,  _finally_  happened. 

Uncharacteristically, Steve had been the one who was out late, while Bucky’d gotten home far earlier.  _He’d_  been the one who had the date that didn’t go well, and Steve - well, he hadn’t seen him and the girl he’d set him up with, Betty Miller, since nine o’clock. It was well past midnight now. He’d been sitting on the couch, half-heartedly leafing through an old issue of Time magazine, [the one with Adolf Hitler as Man of the Year](http://content.time.com/time/specials/packages/article/0,28804,2019712_2019694_2019588,00.html), waiting up for some reason.

He’d read the same paragraph four times before setting it aside with a frustrated sigh, torn somewhere between relief that maybe a date had finally worked out for Steve, and an odd sort of ache in his chest that…maybe a date had finally worked out for Steve.

He was about ready to pack it in and go to bed when Steve finally fell through their apartment door a half-hour later, reeking of whiskey, his hair mussed, eyes bright, and lips wet, Bucky’s not sure whether or not to sigh with relief or with envy for the girl he’d been giving it to.

"S’pose I shouldn’t ask you how it went," he says with a wry grin as he peels him out of the doorway and guides him into the living room. "I can tell just by lookin’ at ya."

Steve hiccups a bit, and half-sits, half-slides onto the couch, knocking the magazine to the floor, falling open to a picture of Adolf yelling something to a crowd. Bucky kicks it under the couch absently. ”How  _what_  went? Nothing went. Nothing went anywhere. Walked Betty to her ma’s at nine-thirty sharp.” 

Bucky looks at the clock pointedly before sitting down next to him. “Now, maybe it ain’t none of my business, Stevie. But that was three and a half hours ago. You get lost?”

Shrugging loosely, Steve looks away. “I just. I took a walk.” Bucky notes with amusement that if he lies for shit even when he’s sober as a judge, he’s even worse when he’s half in the bag.

"Yeah, a walk right into a bar," Bucky says wryly. "Christ, you reek like you’ve drowned in the stuff." Really, he’s not mad at him, just…just teasing, but damned if he isn’t curious as hell where Steve had gotten on to tonight if it wasn’t with his date.

Steve sways in his seat and Bucky puts out an arm to steady him, but instead of straightening up Steve just falls against him, Bucky’s arm around him. “Took a walk,” he slurs, dragging his lips over Bucky’s collarbone as he speaks, his breath ghosting hot over his skin. Just that bare touch goes straight to his dick, and he shifts uncomfortably.

Dimly, he’s aware that Steve is still talking. “Walked. Around ‘n around, thinkin’, ‘n you wanna know somethin’?” The liquor on his breath is so strong Bucky feels dizzy, or at least that’s what he tells himself. It’s the fumes, it’s not Steve’s lips on his neck that’s making his head spin.

"I reaaaaaaaaalized," Steve sings out drunkenly and presses himself even closer to Bucky, and now he  _does_  move his lips, C _hrist, is he kissing him? Steve is kissing him_ , and Bucky thinks he is going to die from heart failure.  _Not a bad way to go_ , he thinks druggedly as Steve presses soft little wet kisses up from his collarbone to right below his ear.

"I realized that. I want you in every way possible. Always have." Steve nips at his earlobe, scraping his teeth gently over the skin, and Bucky shivers and a groan escapes his lips despite himself. "Since we were thirteen years old. Buck, I want you, I want you so bad. ‘M sorry, ‘m sorry, I just."

Bucky feels like his skin is on fire. He’s achingly hard now and, as he glances over, it’s clear Steve is too. “Stevie, you’re drunk, baby. You don’t know what you’re sayin’.”

Steve leans back a bit and grins lopsided at him, his eyes glassy with drink and lust. “I’m your baby? You gonna make me your babydoll, Buck? Be real sweet to me, make me feel good?”

He’s biting his cheek so hard he thinks he can taste blood as he stands up abruptly, pulling Steve to his feet and trying to steer him towards the bedroom. “Not tonight, Stevie, I can’t…wouldn’t be right. C’mon, let’s go to bed, we’ll see how you feel in the morning, we can…we can talk about it then.” He’s trying so hard to do the right thing, treat him the way he’d treat a dame all liquored up and throwing themselves at him that way. God knows it’d happened more than a few times, and he’d never taken advantage, never would.

Steve’s eyes narrow, his grin becomes sly, suggestive. “Yeah. Okay. Take me to bed, Buck. We’ll go…to…bed.” He reaches out, palms Bucky’s dick with the heel of his hand.

Bucky lets out a moan that’s half frustration and half desire. “Jesus God, y’ ain’t makin’ this easy for me.” He peels Steve’s hand away with no small degree of reluctance. “I don’t wanna take advantage while you’re drunk, I ain’t all right with that. Not tryin’ to say I ain’t flattered, or that I don’t want you back, ‘cause I do, Stevie, I  _do_ , you got  _no idea_  how much - but not while you’re drunk, understand?”

"I got  _some_  idea how much,” Steve says mischeviously, reaching to put his hand on Bucky’s dick again, but Bucky stops him by leaning in to kiss him square on the lips.

He breaks away to press his forehead to Steve’s, and goes for broke. He whispers, his eyes dark, “No, Stevie. No. ‘Cause  I want you to remember my lips on you for the rest of your life. How I taste. How I sound when you take me. ‘S gonna be so good you ain’t ever gonna want anything else for the rest of your days, but your name on my lips and my bare skin against yours.”

Steve closes his eyes and a little tremor rolls through him. “Hell, Buck.”

They’re both trembling when Bucky grips him by the shoulders, looking at him seriously, no-nonsense. “I’m gonna get you some water. And you’re gonna drink it, and take two aspirin besides. And you’re gonna get some sleep and if this ain’t some drunk talk in the morning, well.” He tips him a wink. “Then I might have a cure for your headache that’s better than any pill.”

Steve nods slowly, thoughtfully. “Alright. Okay, Buck. In the morning.”

In the morning, Bucky makes good on his promise. Steve never forgets a second of that first time, the sound of Bucky’s voice crying out in pleasure, the taste of him, the feel of his skin moving against his, the way he kissed him so sweetly, so softly in the morning light, their limbs tangled together.  


 

Bucky, on the other hand, is only given six years to treasure that memory before it is taken from him forever.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about that last line, but I'm a heartless monster. 
> 
> come follow me on tumblr at fuck-me-barnes.tumblr.com for more sad queer crying about these two sad queers.


	8. gone to heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From an anon prompt in my inbox: "i know that you are working on another prompt, and you don't have to do this one until much later. I tried to write it, but it was so cheesy i cringed at every sentence. Yeesh. Okay, Prompt: What if Pre-Serum Steve Rogers and Pre- TWS Bucky Barnes were sharing an apartment. Steve gets sick and Bucky takes care of him. Steve has a nightmare that night about Bucky getting sick and Steve not being able to comfort him. Kinda like a hurt/comfort sickfic with fluff. Is that okay?"
> 
> It's more than okay, anon :)

It’s hard to objectively determine how long he’s been ill. It  _feels_  like forever, like all he’s ever known is this. Hot and sweating skin. The sickness burbling and crackling in his lungs. The bruised feeling of his chest when he coughs, weakly at first to try and keep from breaking a rib, and then even more weakly later, when he doesn’t have the energy in him to cough hard at all. 

He sleeps, which is to say he lapses in and out of fever dreams, never quite asleep, never quite awake. Bucky’d put him on the living room couch so he could be propped up - lying down in bed only lasted about five minutes before he started choking and drowning in his own mucus, and he was too weak to sit back up without help. They’d tried it once, and they’d only got about ten minutes’ worth of rest at a time. At least that’s what Bucky’d said, or what Steve thinks Bucky’d said. It was hard to tell what was real and what wasn’t, anymore, and things were all starting to blur together at the edges.

He closes his eyes, and Bucky’s wiping his fevered brow down with a cool wet washcloth, humming a tune absently. He opens them, and Bucky’s feeding him a spoonful of some medicine that probably would taste awful if he was able to taste anything at all. He swallows and closes his eyes and when he opens them again, it’s dark. Bucky’s sitting above him sniffling and shivering. Maybe it’s just the low light, but he looks sick as a dog. He’s dimly aware that Bucky had been saying something to him, but whatever it was couldn’t be as important as Bucky neglecting his own health in favour of Steve’s.

"How long have you been…?" Steve manages to croak out at him, alarmed, before dissolving into a coughing fit.

"Since the first day we met," Bucky rasps out. From the angle, Steve belatedly realizes that he’s sitting in Bucky’s lap, propped up with his head tilted back to open up his airway. It makes it easier for him to breathe.

Steve struggles to understand. He’d been sick for  _that long_? They’d met well over fifteen years ago, in kindergarten! How had he never noticed? Maybe it was because he was too busy being sick himself, maybe Bucky was just good at hiding it…”Why didn’t you  _tell_  me, you jerk?” he asks, and the effort it takes him to speak causes him to break out into a fresh fine sweat. 

Bucky shudders beneath him. Steve curses internally, knowing Bucky no doubt caught this exact bug from him, fever, chills, and all. His voice is low and quiet when he replies. “I didn’t want you to know, Stevie. Thought it might make things…thought you might not want to be around me, anymore.”

Steve struggles both to find breath and to stay calm. Bucky’d always been the one to take care of him, and now he’d gone and given Bucky his pneumonia.

"Buck, no. I always -" he coughs, and Bucky sits him up enough to fit a hand between them, rubbing a worried circle in between his shoulder blades. "- always want to be around you, I just wish you’d have trusted me enough to tell me," he wheezes out. "You gotta know I’ve felt the same, since we were kids."

He can feel Bucky tense up underneath him, his voice growing cautious. “What are you talking about, Stevie.” 

"You jerk, you’re telling me you had no idea? Y’ always take such good care of me - I wish I could do it for you half as good, Buck," he pleads, his lungs seizing up for another coughing fit again. He feels drunk, dizzy, just thinking about caring for Bucky for a change. "Don’t ever want anything to happen to ya - don’t know what I’d do without you. No matter what, I ain’t gonna leave you, Buck, I promise you that."

He leans back, settling himself with his head tipped back on Bucky’s shoulder, and that’s when Bucky kisses him. At first, he thinks it’s a dream, and then he thinks maybe he’s stopped breathing. Yes, that must be it, he’s stopped breathing and Bucky is trying to resuscitate him. It feels like explosions are going off in his chest, his heart, his head. He’s dying. This is what it feels like to die, he thinks distantly: falling into a glorious swoon, warm and safe and comfortable wrapped in your best friend’s arms, his lips on yours. No pain, no struggling for breath, no fear, just love. Angels sing, the skies open up, and he feels like he could just fly happily right off the earth.

"Buck," he murmurs against the softest, sweetest pair of lips on all of heaven and earth, "are we dead?"

Bucky pulls back, shocked into laughter. “The hell kind of question is that, Rogers? I ain’t dead and neither are you. Now,” he smirks roguishly, “I may’ve been told before that kissing me is like heaven, but  _Christ_ , Stevie-doll, this is the first time someone thinks kissin’ me about  _killed_  ‘em.”    
  
He leans in for another kiss, even softer and gentler than before. “‘M tellin’ ya, you punk, if that’s you’re reaction to me tellin’ ya I’ve been in love with you since we were kids, then I’m not sure  _how_  to feel.”

Steve blinks in confusion. “You aren’t sick?” 

His eyebrows raise, and he snorts. “Only sick with worry, dollface, that you ain’t gettin’ much better. Hush, you gotta relax and let the meds kick in. We can talk about this later, or maybe we’ll never talk about it again. Can always write it off as a horrible nightmare.” 

"I don’t. I don’t wanna forget. Buck. Ain’t you gonna get sick, kissing me?" he chokes out. 

"No more than I usually am sick over you, sweetheart," he murmurs against his temple, tipping his head back to rest against his shoulder. Steve can feel his lips curved up into a smile. "Quiet, now, you gotta get your rest."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idek what my obsession with pneumoniac!Steve is, save that I too once nearly died of pneumonia and it's the easiest illness for me to reference, having survived it...barely.
> 
> come follow me at fuck-me-barnes.tumblr.com for more sad crying about sad queers.


End file.
